Two Years in Brazil

Well, it’s been exactly two years ago that I came to Brazil with my husband and we got my residence process started. I only say, I haven’t been bored. Last year I wrote this about my initial stages of the journey. At the time I was waiting for the documents to arrive so I could travel to see my relatives.

I have a lot more to say now, and I can understand Portuguese much better. Some things have remained the same and some things have changed. Thank God we are out of the family home. I am still waiting for the honeymoon, and we are still out of tune with each other, Brasil and I.

Brazil- 2012

His arms sweep through the air and his hands gesture emphatically, as he announces “after hours on the phone, I am standing here as your husband, telling you that your lasse passé has arrived, you are officially free to leave Brazil. Let’s book the tickets. You will be in Europe in three days.”

He is proud of himself and a wave of relief washes over me and the niggling anxiety I have been carrying around for the better part of two months slowly abates until I realize the reality of booking airplane tickets at the last minute.

My lovely, well intentioned husband wonders why I am not sweeping my arms through the air and shouting enthusiastic jubilations at the joy of being allowed to go to Europe.
I love him. He is trying so incredibly hard. He keeps trying to make Canadian promises in a Brazilian context.

I cannot complain. I have had the advantage of his “Brazilian-ness” for the better part of a year now. It is the Brazilian-ness that made him get on a plane and fly all the way around the world to be with me. Five months later it is the same thing that keeps him awake late at night, and urges him to wake me on my sickbed with pneumonia, heavily drugged and desperate for sleep, to ask me to marry him. I am destined to always be the one who says, “Of course I will marry you, but can’t you ask me at a more appropriate time?”

It is also the passionate emotional person who traveled back and forth between Canada and Brazil in order to spend the most amount of time with my mother before she died. The same person who had the foresight and sanity to keep making last minute extensions to our honeymoon plans in order to bring home a sane, emotionally balanced and well rested daughter– not the hysterical one he had to suffer through for three weeks. Take it from me, you don’t ever want to move to a foreign country in such emotionally turbulent times.

Yes, Brazilians are emotional and passionate. I feel like the soul crusher, and he is desperately trying to show me a world in which we can place our dreams. I really wanted to come to Brazil. I was, with all my heart, looking forward to coming to a new place, to start my life with my husband.

But Brazil and I are just out of tune with each other.

To be fair, it is not exactly Brazil’s fault. It was supposed to be a grand adventure. As it happened, moving to a new country, the death of a parent, getting married and moving in with your husband’s entire immediate family turned out to be less of a grand adventure and more of a grand folly. When we came to Brazil the first time, it was for a visit, so when we stayed at his grandmother’s house, I thought it was sweet, and knew we were going back to Canada. But when we arrived again permanently, and the realization that we were going to be living with them sunk in, is where my problems all began with Brazil.

I feel I have entered a labyrinth, that is very small and constricting, and the turns I need to take to maneuver through it are small and short, very hard for an independent Canadian used to wide open spaces- psychologically speaking. “Como faço para sair deste lugar?” How do I get out of this?

Our plans, to put it lightly have all gone out the window. I can put my cute little Canadian pen to paper and make as many lists and plans as possible, but in the Brazilian context, they are nothing but wishful thinking, until the very last second when everything will work out. I have been planning our trip to Europe for months. I have a neat and tidy little plan, a document that I’ve been sticking faithfully too. I am always a bit shocked and hurt when my husband mocks me for making plans with my friends well in advance of an event.

I admit, with a bit of injured pride and the disappointment of a dream that hasn’t quite gone as planned, that among the steps of culture shock, I never had a honeymoon phase with Brazil.

In fact, the first time we left Brazil to go back to Canada I remember sitting in an airport with tears rolling uncontrollably down my face, turning to my husband and saying, “I never want to come back to this place again”.

Expressing it only made me cry harder because I knew I had injured his feelings. I knew of course several minutes later I had to apologize.

My husband repeats a phrase a lot these days which is “It’s my fault.” and I am repeating “I’m sorry” far more often than ever these days. We are in a sort of a situation right now.

The situations keep demanding, “aumentar a tensão!!!” Increase the tension.

Here is where the creative tension starts to increase. The torque, the moment of force where things turn on their access, I can see this moment in time, the one I am transitioning through. My past experiences tell me that this great transition will change me, for the rest of my life. I know there is a place of static equilibrium in my future, and the tension is created by the transculturation that is occurring. I am not going through a process of complete acculturation, by taking my husband’s Brazilian (and sub-cultures) culture as my own, and I am not going through a complete deculturation by leaving behind my Canadian (and sub-cultures) culture, rather going through a process in which together we create our own culture. If I were labeling it, it would be a Brazilian-Canadian-Italian-Swedish-Lebanese-British culture. Our highest commonality in terms of identity is that we both hold Canadian passports, and soon we will both hold Brazilian passports. Here is where the tension seems to be, is the place that I am interceding in the system, like so many other immigrants before me.

I am a third generation Canadian, so my family and I are fully assimilated into the Canadian culture. Little remains of our Swedish culture. On occasion my husband will remark about my colder, analytical and more organized culture. My husband is also a third generation of immigrants, though his Italian and Lebanese culture is much more evident. He is expressive to a tee. I do not, and I don’t think I will ever understand the nuances, or the psyche behind his Italian family.

Coming from Canada, and being familiar with the effects of colonization, I am acutely aware of my deliberate choice to enter a system as a foreigner. I am interceding in a national system, in fact successfully obtaining residency and the right to live and be a part of the society. So too am I interceding in society and the class system here in Brazil, something very different from my Canadian culture.

I am aware that when I am fully able to function in society, I will begin participating in the economic system, in the greater community. When we implement our farming system, we will be intersecting in the agricultural system and influencing food systems. Because I have awareness about the effects of colonization, I don’t want to repeat destructive patterns that were carried out in the past history of the Americas. I cannot change anything my ancestors have done, but I can be conscious about my actions here in the present time. Sometimes however, when I want to tell my Brazilian husband to get his shit together and follow my plan, I am acutely aware that imposing my “order” on his system is not all that copasetic. When I ask if the hotel is booked and he says yes, and I invariably find myself sitting in the car outside the hotel frantically searching websites to make a booking, I have to take a moment and pause.

It always seems my real work is to surrender. I rally against discord, disorganization and dissonance- only to come to the same conclusion: Surrender. Often what my expectations are, do not match up with reality. Here in Brazil, I must surrender. Immersed in chaos the response cannot be order, the response can only be, go with it.

The creative tension is intense here, and I just get a small glimpse into a cultural norm that has been emerging lately for me, a Brazilian ethos or mores ascribed to “Gerson’s Law”, the act of taking advantage of a situation for personal gain. It is the concept of being “smart” by using “connections” and “pulling strings” to get something done.
Associated with this is the “Jeitinho Brasileiro”, a person who uses this behaves in a manner that allows him to come up with a creative way to solve a problem or outsmart someone, in order to gain advantage and get what you want, even at the expense of others. It’s somewhat sneaky, although I’ve seen it described as “creative”.

The two concepts seem similar to me although I am still learning there are nuances. In part I cannot criticize this behavior as in fact, my husband has used this in many circumstances that have come out in our favor. Until I learned this I just thought my husband was incredibly rude and I felt extremely uncomfortable in the situations as we were going through them. I can understand why people use this behavior. The country is a nightmare for bureaucracy without meaning, and change is hard to make without coming through some sort of creative channel.

Brazilians never say no, I am told. But the actions in many situations are “no” actions. I say no all the time, they must think I am incredibly rude. I don’t doubt that they think I am cold because I almost never make small talk. I want communication to be quick and efficient. I never watch the Novellas and I never want to talk about them.

When I arrived, my whole system was overwhelmed with an information overload, experiencing a new language, a new family, new food. I went through a very methodical, clinical case of transition shock. I feel as though I may still be there, in this place. Excessive concern over cleanliness? Check, and please remove eggs, cheese, milk and fish and anything pickled from my diet. Feelings of helplessness? Oh yes. Physiological stress reactions? Well, every time I approach the cashier in the grocery store I get a hot flash, I feel as though I am going to pass out and I begin to sweat. My heart races and I feel a constriction come across my chest. Why? Because she might ask me if I have the right change, if I want a boy to bring the groceries to the car, do I want anything else? And I might not know what to say except, “Eu não falo português.”

My husband bears the brunt of this stress as I take my frustrations out on him. I hate it here. I hate the food. I hate the stores. I hate the family. I hate the way people talk to each other. I hate everything about this place. I hate the way they drive. I hate learning Portuguese. I don’t want to make friends. I don’t want to talk to people. I have no support system. I can’t do anything myself.

On the journey through tension I am in a place of reacting and it leaves little time for any creative thinking. It is never more evident here than our housing situation. I am desperate to have my own space. It was hard enough to merge my life with my husbands after being independent for the better part of my life, but merging my life with his family was the last thing I wanted to do.

We end up spinning in circles, desperate for a solution to our housing crisis.

My husband is going through the reverse process of culture shock. He has been away for the better part of twenty years. Coming home occasionally, but not permanently, and definitely not with a wife and intentions of staying put in Brazil. His process in fact is much more emotional and intense. He speaks the language but people don’t always understand him, and he uses words that are from the time he left Brazil. He is frustrated and angry in much the same way I am.
I did what any self-respecting, organized Canadian would do and I went through my list of friends and identified a few who could give me some advice on integrating into a new country. My dear friends sent wonderful suggestions to help with the integration process.

Then came the discussion about attitude. I was on the phone with my dear friend in Japan and I was telling her about my bad attitude, the dislike of most things Brazilian. Somehow by talking it through I came to acknowledge that my bad attitude was in fact making the situation worse. That I was only harming myself by continuing to see things in such a negative light, that it didn’t matter what was going on for me, I would have to just grow up and get over my emotional problems and deal with the situation. No one was going to save me or fix the situation for me.

The moment just before this was the moment when the tension compounded and compressed everything so tightly, and changing my attitude released the tension so that it began to fall apart.

The creative solution began to spontaneously emerge. Not long after a language break-through arrived.
It was a Saturday and we were visiting a friend and once again going over house plans, trying to find ways to get things done. I was sitting quietly, not speaking much and thinking that this was going to be yet another afternoon wasted, spent chatting away and getting no real work done. All of a sudden we were being whisked off to his farm to see the house his parents built. I remember getting in the car, elated, thinking “finally, some action”. We arrived to the farm, embers from a fire were glowing in the yard, the stars were coming out and two little old people poked heads out the front door.

Something happened. An internal switch, the language light came on. I wanted to talk to them and we wandered around the yard and the house and we talked all night. About the cinnamon tree, the Angola chickens, about the bitter pith in an orange, about being neighbors.

Everything happened. It seemed the situation was a turning point for me. A major unlearning in the language barriers for me was to be really interested in the subjects. Of course, that made sense then. I know all kinds of words for food, cooking and taste. I know plants, vegetables and fruit.

Social responses are not my strong suit. I sat and read ten pages of the medicinal plant book out loud to Sergio one night and could understand everything. Complex words and ideas like adaptogen and vassodialation, contraindication and all the plant names.

But finding the things I can talk about and making the language connection had to happen hand in hand before I felt comfortable in the other realms. It didn’t just stop there, and I was able to make it to Sao Paulo and stay with a woman who didn’t speak English, and we communicated very well. So then the momentum builds, the tension winds up and is then released.

This is a very complex place, I underestimated it.

Actually, I am glad Brazil and I never had a honeymoon phase. Too much honeymoon makes for a bad marriage. I will wait until after all the shock is over, and the language sorts itself out, and we are happily ensconced on the farm. I would rather go through all the hating and growing pains now and then get to the falling in love part. Then, I am sure Brazil and I can be in tune with each other.

New Friends of the Canine Kind

“Please, sir, I want some more.”
― Charles Dickens, Oliver Twist

For several months now we have had a frequent visitor to our house. I think we may be on the right track, and it is quite possible that we’ve been chosen as humans to a very polite and hungry street dog.

20130916-005608.jpg

The dog was wandering the street one night when Mr. Abrahao called to me and said “This mama dog is looking for food for her puppies. Quick, get her something to eat!”

I love my husbands imagination and willingness to make up a good story about what he is witnessing.

I politely corrected him after several misidentifications. “Love, this is a boy dog. He isn’t out looking for food for his puppies.”

20130916-010802.jpg

This is how it started.

I think he liked us! He visits every day, some times twice. He let me feed him from my hand, and he impressed me with his gentle manner.

Soon the gate was open. Now he comes frequently at night to lay around.

Last night was wonderful. I really think he likes us.

20130916-010906.jpg

There are a lot of street dogs here in Brazil. I want each and everyone of them.

We have temporarily dubbed our dog Oliver. Mr. Oliver Twist. He is the most polite street dog of them all! Although he doesn’t really care about humans. He eats, sleeps and leaves. He doesn’t bark. He is a roamer. He goes about his business and comes around for a visit when he wants to.

I hope he decides to stay with us.

My Husband the Nobel Prize Nominee

“You can easily judge the character of a man by how he treats those who can do nothing for him.” Goethe

20130907-222425.jpg

It was a sunny afternoon and the mango trees were heavy with fruit. I was in the kitchen making potato salad and looking out the window thinking about how far away from home I was.

Life looked much different for me this year compared to last, moving from Canada to Brazil with my husband.

I walked the few steps from the family home to the family office looking for my husband who had been spending every last minute pouring his energy into a system he was designing for the family business. I walked into the office, a bowl of garlic and knife in hand, with the intention of sitting a minute.

“How are you?” He had a look on his face. His is the kind of face that tells everything. Emotions are worn outward like a flag. At that moment his face was puzzling something out. Not the pausing kind of man, he took pause.

“What now?” I asked with a lot of irritation in my voice. Since being in Brazil the luxury of being private, of living a simple life had vanished and in its place sprang up an ugly monster of imposition, obligation and duty, something I had only moderately become accustomed to. Obligation on top of the sheer joy of living with family.

He said, “Do you want to hear news that is not related to my family?”
“What? News not related to your family. Inconceivable! That would be fabulous. Tell me.”

Still slowly thinking, still puzzling it out, he proceeded.

“I just received a copy of a magazine article from Scientific American. They are talking about our project. You know, the one I told you about, from my university days, in England. This article says we might be looking at next year’s Nobel Prize. At first I thought it was a prank but they sent me the nomination papers.”

Well. Of course my husband has been nominated for a Nobel Prize. He’s just that kind of guy.

He’s odd. He’s absent minded. I mean, he’s smart—not just smart, he has occasional flashes of brilliance. Mostly but he’s the kind of guy that things just happen to. Like arriving in California to learn English right at the same time as a major earthquake. He spent his university years drinking with his fabulous mates, inventing and patenting new computer technology. Then he found out he had a bum liver. Woops! One too many whiskey’s is all the drinks too many. Then there are the other things that just happen. Like, coming up out of a subway station for your job at the New York Stock Exchange, a little late, only to see planes crashing, fires roaring and people running. Or the time he had a tumor that was supposed to be the death of him, and yet death just couldn’t do him in.

My mother used to say of me that I could fall into an outhouse and come out smelling like roses. It’s true. But my husband could fall into an outhouse, come out grinning, smelling like roses, his hand grasping a sack of gold.

So, of course, he had been nominated for a Nobel Prize.

Even Nobel Prize nominees have families, so you can always be assured a certain banality of life, no matter the circumstances. Our excitement was short lived. Some families, like my husband’s family are critical enough to destroy anyone, Nobel Prize or not. When we told his father about the nomination he didn’t so much as look up from his lunch and replied, “Pass the salt”. Later his comments ranged into the “We will believe it when we see it” category.

I know a little bit about this because when I called to tell my mother that I was getting married, she replied “That’s good, you’ve never done that before. I have to go finish mowing the lawn now.” Not that getting engaged is anything like getting nominated for a Nobel Prize.

There were many questions. He tells me about it, carefully, in full detail and we pondered the implications to our privacy, to our lives on a whole. We already lived in a fishbowl, and soon we looked poised to move into the sardine can. We held our breath for months hoping no one would find out. We like a certain amount of privacy and it seems we are just odd enough to be talk of the town quite a bit anyway.

My husband truly is the absent minded professor. Add the effects of chemotherapy to his short term memory and you’ve now got a really absent minded professor. He talks as fast as he can so he can say everything before he forgets. I tell him if he forgets it wasn’t important. He doesn’t agree. He has an office with computers stacked one on top of the other. He hangs things from odd spots, he put labels on everything with his very messy writing. He has several monitors and every cord and cable you can think of. I cannot imagine a gift giving event without me receiving a new piece of technology. He spreads his technology around with pride!

20130907-222813.jpg

One day when I was exasperated with the electronics mess, his mother told me a story from his childhood. Apparently he had every toy he owned spread out in front of him and becoming tired of cleaning up after him all the time she threatened him with an ultimatum. He was supposed to clean his things up and put them away or all the toys would go to the orphanage. He agreed and went to his room. After some time he emerged and said “I’ve made a decision. You can take all my toys to the orphanage. I am not cleaning them up.” She had to follow through on her threats, but apparently he never missed his toys or showed a sign of regret.

My husband is like that. He still wants everything out in front of him, and when it’s time to let it go there are no regrets, they are just things. He doesn’t mind accolades, airs, brands or labels of any sort.

But this Nobel thing still influenced our lives. The question of ethics, right and wrong and most importantly the commodification of an idea. Barristers calling, companies digging. Betrayal. The worst of the worst. Worries about the consequences of actions taken, dissection of the scientific consequences throughout history. All night meetings, months of secrecy, transatlantic flights. Fights about percentages, fights about intentions. Anxiety over tuxedos and ball gowns and who to invite. Dreams of collaboration with peers and scientific breakthroughs of the brilliant kind. Flights of fancy about what was possible.

At times we laughed about it, and at times we had to pause and think about the magnitude of the situation. We were little and nothing and something big was on the table. We kept it irreverent, and in the end, we learned why it was important not to put scores and faith in something that is only an illusion. It is as corrupt as its players and at its core is a nefarious process. There is nothing innocent or nice or noble about it.
I’ll never forget the devastated look on my husband’s face a few weeks ago when we found out that someone in the group had betrayed them all, resulting in a disqualification. At the end of the day, it’s just money and power. A lobby here, a royal backing there, leaking secrets– it’s all in a day’s work. He was embarrassed and ashamed and I actually had to remind him that most people never get nominated for a Nobel Prize. Then we let out a sigh of relief because our privacy might still remain a little bit intact.

There are things in life you can’t take back. Biting words said at an important moment, things one can never forget. Truth be known, they can’t take back a Nobel Prize nomination. It happened!
The only response I have for my husband is, “Oh well, my little Nobel Prize nominee! Come and have lunch. I made you potato salad.” Between us, there is always potato salad. Nobody can take that moment in time away, where every possibility is still spread out before us. It doesn’t matter what happened after, it never really mattered. Prizes are for people who need to have prizes. It’s good to let go and push beyond the past. It’s good to put more score in living beings, living systems and living things. There are things to be cherished in the life that surrounds us. My husband will tell you that facing death teaches you what is important in life. Right now we have this present moment. He is a person with a long list of moments, one of them was a Nobel Prize nomination. Winning sometimes has a very high price, sometimes it’s better for everyone to be a very good looser.

20130907-222957.jpg

A Mystery Flower

Here in Brazil my greatest guilty pleasure is to buy flower bulbs when I am at the grocery store. Which is great– but also leads to my situation now- a mystery flower. Is is gorgeous! I thought it was an amaryllis bulb I planted. But it came up– four feet tall with beautiful globe shaped clusters. Anyone out there know what it is? I want to plant hundreds of them!

20130812-112958.jpg

20130812-113014.jpg

Fathers Day in Brazil!

Today is Father’s Day in Brazil. To my delight not only has the Lebanese culture influenced Brazil– but my own house hold! My father-in-law and Husband are Lebanese and so the feast of the day will be Kibbe and Kibbe Cru, Laban, Chancliche, Tabuleh. And many other good mezze items!
My father-in-law tells me there are 7 million Lebanese in Brazil. 4 Million in Lebanon. I, for one am grateful for the Lebanese influence! And my kitchen has only been enriched by all the goodness!

Happy Father’s Day Pai!!!

20130811-110704.jpg